


Shack 69

by Speranza



Category: Queer as Folk (UK)
Genre: Canadian Shack, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-12-29
Updated: 2001-12-29
Packaged: 2017-10-28 11:04:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/307209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Speranza/pseuds/Speranza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Blimey, right out of Tarantino, this," the other stranger said, adjusting his gun.  "Right, okay—here goes!"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shack 69

**Author's Note:**

> Written as part of the original 2001 Canadian Shack Challenge.

"Don't. Please." Lina Napartuk raised one leather-wrapped hand in protest, well aware of the gesture's futility against the four huge, heavily-armed poachers. "These animals are needed by the village. If you kill them—"

"Out of the way." The largest poacher gestured at her with his gun. "Now."

"—Ivjujivik will starve," Lina continued implacably. "Please. I _ask_ you—"

Lina clutched her chest at the shot, certain that it had been meant for her. But after a moment, she raised her head and saw that the four poachers were staring at two newcomers who had appeared behind them, thin men dressed entirely in black, their faces wrapped in scarves against the cold.

"Right, then—fuck off," one of the men said, raising a sleek black gun. "Now."

One of the poachers stepped forward, growling. "And who's gonna make us? You?"

The two strangers exchanged looks. "Yeah. Us," the first stranger replied—and shot the gun out of the poacher's hand. It flew through the air and disappeared. The poacher stared down at his bleeding hand, as if he'd just witnessed a magic trick.

"Any other takers?" the first stranger asked, sounding amused. The poachers raised their guns. "Right. Persistent buggers." He glanced at his partner. "Shall we?"

"Blimey, right out of Tarantino, this," the other stranger said, adjusting his gun. "Right, okay—here goes!"

The air exploded with gunfire. Lina threw herself to the ground and covered her head. When all had gone quiet she glanced up and saw that only the two black-clad strangers were still standing.

"Not exactly _suave_ ," the first stranger sighed, lowering his gun.

"What do you mean, 'not exactly suave'?" The second gunman's voice had a plaintive edge. "What's not suave about that?"

"Good shooting, though," the first gunman mused, bending to pick up one of the poachers' guns.

" _What_ wasn't suave?" The second gunman repeated. "I thought that was suave..."

"Yeah, well, you would." The first gunman pocketed the pistol, and kicked idly at the poacher's head. "Bonus points for accuracy, minus ten for style."

"That was stylish! What wasn't stylish about that?" The second gunman began to pace. "What, did I miss this month's issue of _Modern Vigilante_?"

"Here goes,'" the first gunman repeated, mimicking and exaggerating the other man's accent. "Shooting now if that's all right.'' Bang-bang." He shook his head. "Stop being so bloody English. 'We'll shoot now if it's all right with you, mate, all right? Or is Thursday better?'"

"I didn't!" The other man nearly jumped up and down in protest, while the first man made his way toward her. "I—oh my God, is she all right?"

"Dunno yet." The first gunman crouched and studied her; all that was visible of him were his long-lashed eyes. "You all right?"

Lina nodded. Instantly the second gunman was gripping her hands, pulling her up, and fussing over her. "God, she's probably freezing. Sitting here in the snow—"

"She's Inuit, isn't she. I think she can handle it."

"Perhaps tea," the second gunman suggested to Lina. "You want a cup of tea? We've got some back at the cabin—water's still hot, I think—"

The first man was unwrapping the scarf from his head. He was lovely—all dark curly hair and pale skin. He took his partner by the shoulders, turned him away from Lina, and tugged his scarf down with his thumbs. The second man's face was kind. "Not _too_ bloody English, are you, Vince," the man murmured, and then he kissed his partner slowly, and with very great affection.


End file.
